


Leave No Doubt

by newamsterdam



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, Canada Tops, Established Relationship, Gift Exchange, Hockey, Ice Skating, M/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2818013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a good thing that nations don't actively participate in international sporting competitions. It gives them more opportunity to enjoy the spirit of the games in other ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave No Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the [NedCan Secret Santa](http://nedcansecretsanta.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, for [professionally-strange](http://professionally-strange.tumblr.com/). I really hope you enjoy the story, and that you have a wonderful holiday! The prompt for this was "what happens when you put a hockey dynamo and a speed-skating freak on the ice together." The answer to that question is sex, apparently. 
> 
> For reference, [these](http://i.imgur.com/8QymBMV.jpg) are the Canadian Men's Hockey Team jerseys. And [this](http://i.imgur.com/9CZOB1G.jpg) is what the Dutch Speed Skating uniform looks like.
> 
> At the Sochi Olympics, Canada won 25 medals, coming in at fourth place overall and taking gold in both Men's and Women's Hockey. Netherlands took fifth with 24 medals, and all of them were in Speed Skating, because that's how the Dutch roll.
> 
> Nederland calls Canada "schatje" ("little treasure") because he likes valuable things. Canada calls Nederland "sweetie" because he likes sugary things. I'm not sure why, but my Nederland really likes nicknames. Maybe because people keep calling him different variations of his own name.
> 
> "Leave No Doubt" is a motto of the Canadian Hockey Team.

As a rule, the nations don’t participate in sporting events. It’s against the spirit of most of them, and anyway they get too wrapped up in cheering their people to victory. So although most of them enjoy what their people enjoy, and excel at what their people do, at national competitions they are spectators, coaches, and sources of motivation—never competitors. 

But that doesn’t mean they don’t have a little fun, now and again.

Nederland trains with his speed skaters for one reason—because if they can outpace him, then he knows they’ll be sure to outskate each and every competitor when the time comes. He also may or may not enjoy the feeling of going sixty kilometers an hour, the sensation akin to flying in the best way, but that’s not something he advertises. He is in the business of acquiring gold, not chasing that most brilliant high. 

The latest Olympics haven’t gone too badly, he thinks. Russia can be the worst kind of prick, when motivated, but Nederland still remembers him as a long-limbed kid who was fascinated by ship-building and bicycles, and that’s endeared him to Nederland for many years. 

The cool winter air touches on Nederland’s cheeks, and he reaches up to rewrap his scarf. As he stalks through the Olympic Village, passing under the archway of flags, he can’t help but look up at his own and grin in a calm, satisfied way. No one is able to see the expression under his scarf, anyway. 

It’s a few minutes’ walk to the practice rinks, but he makes it there in good time. He is, after all, almost as efficient at walking as he is at skating. He doesn’t really understand why it takes some nations (who won’t be named, but may be Spain and Austria) half an hour to get just about anywhere. 

There are various athletes resting outside the ring, proudly wearing the colors of their nations. Nederland claims himself a spot on one bench, laying his skates beside him and unzipping the front of his jacket. Glancing around, he sees the ridiculous patterns of Norway’s uniforms, Austria’s staid red and white and the bright gold of Germany. But really, he’s here for one reason—and _he_ is already on the ice. 

Nederland remembers with frightening clarity the first time Canada invited him to a hockey game. It wasn’t even a national match, just one of those lead-ins to the Stanley Cup. But the ferocity and enthusiasm that the younger nation had displayed had been unlike anything Nederland had seen from him, up to that point. It had been almost frightening, in a way, but it had also been insanely hot. Nederland never did find out who won that game, as he’d dragged Canada out of the stands for a different kind of finale. 

“Are you like, trying to melt the ice with the force of your glare?” A voice calls out to him, and a moment later there’s a presence sitting down beside him. 

Nederland doesn’t turn to acknowledge his new companion. “I’m not glaring.”

Poland laughs, waves a hand in front of his face and demands to be noticed. “No? That’s a shame. It could be a totally cool power, you know! Really great for sabotaging other teams!” 

Nederland huffs with no small amount of pride. “As if I’d need to resort to sabotage.”

Poland shakes his head, leaning into Nederland’s side. It’s a testament to something—either long-term trade or long-term friendship—that Nederland doesn’t shove him aside. “Mm-kay, whatever you say. I haven’t even seen you ‘round, you know. What are your athletes even doing?” 

Now Nederland rolls his eyes, reaches up to adjust his scarf so that he won’t give in to the temptation to pinch Poland’s side, or maybe muss up his hair. It’s easy not to care about such sentiments, though, when he can say, “Winning medals. Did you not understand the purpose of the competition?”

“Wow, rude. I’ve won six so far, you big jerk.” Poland elbows Nederland in the side, but the other nation is so slight that Nederland barely feels it. He demonstrates this by finally turning his head and lifting one careful brow.

“Just six?” he asks placidly. “Try twenty-four.” Nederland has always had a soft spot for precious metals. And though this iteration of gold, silver and bronze isn’t quite what he’s used to, he’s still infinitely charmed by it. 

“Ugh, no need to be so cocky, Ned. You could like, try winning in a sport that’s an actual competition, sometime.” 

Now Nederland just smiles, a thin movement of his lips that most people can’t read. “Where’s the fun in that,” he murmurs softly, but then he hears the siren of a goal being scored and changes his tune. “Fuck, you made me miss it.”

Poland is entirely unrepentant. “So pay better attention— _oh_. Are you here ogling the boyfriend?”

Nederland is turned back towards the ice, eyes following one figure in white and red out of a dozen. He wishes hockey didn’t require so much padding, sometimes. If it wasn’t for the carefully-printed _Williams_ on the back of one jersey, he might not be able to find Canada at all. 

“I don’t ogle anything,” Nederland mutters, half-heartedly pushing Poland away from him. “Now go away, you’re distracting me.” 

Poland lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Dude, don’t let me stop you. Ogle away!” Before Nederland can even respond to that, Poland’s on his feet. He winks at Nederland, ruffles his hair (because he can only do so when he’s standing and Nederland is sitting). “I’d totally do the same thing—hockey’s a pretty sexy sport, who knew?” 

And then, because he’s not a complete idiot and knows Nederland will kill him, Poland turns on one heel and heads for another bench, where Latvia and Belarus are looking relaxed and pleased, for once. Nederland supposes the thrill of medaling brings that out in everyone. 

Nederland watches the rest of the match with his elbows balanced against his knees, chin against his hands. On one hand he can hear Canada’s voice, calling out instructions and formations to his athletes in that confident, commanding tone that Nederland rarely hears from him. On the other, there’s the subtle artistry about the way he moves on the ice, hips moving just slightly as he turns or slows. But maybe the best part is when the match is over, and Canada pulls off his helmet and lets himself be crushed in the center of a group tackle-cum-hug. For a moment there’s a brilliant smile on his face, all teeth and blushing cheeks, utterly blissful. 

Nederland scrambles into his skates, barely waits for Canada’s team to make it off the ice when he heads onto it. He leaves his scarf and jacket by the side of the rink, then skates over to Canada with not as much speed as he could’ve used. Never let it be said that he is not patient, or discreet. 

“Hey,” Canada calls out, lips still caught in that perfect smile. “Did you just come from practice?” If he gives Nederland a long glance, eyes lingering on certain places of his uniform, then Nederland does not blame him. It is good, he supposes, to be wanted as much as he wants.

Nederland braces one hand on Canada’s shoulder, leans in to speak directly against his ear. “Hm,” he says, noncommittal. “Was that the last match of the day?”

“Yeah. I should probably go check on the skiers, but other than that—” Canada’s voice cuts off when Nederland kisses him gently behind the ear, pulling back immediately so that Canada’s left turning towards him, chasing the sensation. 

“You can do that tomorrow,” Nederland informs him. 

Canada licks his lips, already red from cold. “And I’m going to be doing what, exactly, today?” 

“That depends, schatje,” Nederland says. “You up for another competition?”

Canada is already shedding the bulkier gear from beneath his uniform, tossing them over the edge of the rink. “Are you going to make me agree to terms, first? Sign a contract and put up collateral?”

Canada apparently finds it very amusing that Nederland functions on such terms—a kiss for a kiss, a good fuck for a good fuck. But Nederland has always been about deliberate balances and sums. He can’t help it if that characterizes even this part of his life.

However, today he’s not quite in that sort of mood. “I don’t think so. I think if you catch me, you can have whatever else you want.”

For a moment, Canada just smiles at him—sweet and innocent, representative of everything good in this world. And that’s how Nederland usually thinks of him, when he cradles him close in bed or enjoys his breakfasts the next morning. But then the smile twists into a smirk, and Canada says, “I’ll give you a ten second head start,” and Nederland knows that he fell in love with every side of this man, from meek to smug and back again.

But Nederland also isn’t the type to give up victory so easily, even if losing would mean getting exactly what he wants. So he tears off in the opposite direction, feeling the hiss of his skates against the ice as he picks up speed. A moment later he can sense Canada following him, and his lips pull into a half-smile. 

It’s a hockey rink, not built for distance or too much speed. But Nederland has precision, and so he turns a corner and comes back the opposite direction. Canada, he knows, is used to being slammed up against the edges of the rink—he maybe even enjoys it, because he gets to pay his competitors back in kind. But this time Canada makes a quick turn, too, and then they’re off in earnest—circling and maneuvering around each other, quickly flushed with exhilaration. 

On one turn Nederland gets a proper look at Canada like this—arms bent at the elbows and pale hair blowing away from his face. His purple-blue eyes are narrowed behind his glasses, hands clenched. There is nothing about him that doesn’t add up to competence, determination, and strength. Nederland swallows and nearly misses his next turn.

If one was to mathematically quantify their skills—and Nederland has, many times over—they’d come away equally matched. Nederland has no peers when it comes to speed, but Canada is better-rounded. He can use power to his advantage, and ice is his element more than Nederland’s. So it isn’t really a surprise when Nederland feels a hand grab out for his. He almost stops up short, but manages to maneuver away at the last moment.

He’s breathing heavily, now, sweat soaking into his hairline. After the last close call, he can’t sense Canada right behind him any longer. He’s struck by the feeling of wrongness, for a moment, but knows better than to turn his head and look back. Instead, he keeps charging ahead, turning at the end of the arena to make his way back—

He slams into a broad chest, arms coming up to circle him tightly. They have too much momentum, and they end up slamming against the ice, Canada on his back and Nederland still held against him. 

It takes him a dazed moment to realize what’s happened. Canada must have stopped in the middle of the rink, waited for Nederland to make his way back to him. It’s strategic, if a bit cheap. Nederland is proud on both counts, maybe.

“I win,” Canada whispers against his ear. He’s got one hand against the small of Nederland’s back, the other drifting lower. “Do I get my prize, now?”

Nederland braces his hands on either side of Canada’s head, pushing himself up and ignoring the sting of the ice. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t have an audience,” he says, jerking his head significantly to one side. 

Canada releases him, looks back at the nations still sitting around the rink. Austria’s cheeks are red, but not from cold, and Nederland thinks he sees Poland pocket a few Euro from Germany. Well, he can’t really blame him. 

Canada coughs, his entire face turning a bit red. “Oh, my god,” he says, and he looks like he wants to melt into the floor. 

Nederland leans down, kisses his lips with all the momentum he’d built up skating. “C’mon, schatje. Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

\--

Sometimes, Canada is so sweet that Nederland can’t help but blush. For instance, he insists on holding tight to Nederland’s hand as they make their way off of the arena and back through the village. Nederland has his jacket pulled on loosely, his scarf dangling over one shoulder. Canada doesn’t bother with extra layers, content in just his hockey uniform. Nederland can’t really fault him that, especially when Canada huddles close to him, pressing up against his side.

When they reach Canada’s room, there’s a scramble for the door handle that happens around a heated kiss. Nederland threads one hand in Canada’s hair and tries to open the door with the other—Canada has his hands gripping Nederland’s shoulders and doesn’t seem to notice the door at all until Nederland manages to open it and they both nearly fall, devoid of the surface they’d been leaned up against. 

But Canada keeps walking them backwards into the room, littering Nederland’s face with kisses—one against the tip of his nose, one against his chin, one against the scar on his brow, and in between each a smacking peck on the lips. 

Nederland moans slightly when Canada bites down on his lips and claims his tongue between sharp teeth. The exhilaration of the rink hasn’t left Canada, yet, and it shows in the way he holds onto Nederland tightly—first on his shoulders, then his hands, then his hips. Nederland can feel ten burning points of contact through the thin material of his uniform.

“Do you have any idea,” Canada breathes out between kisses, “how good you look in that?”

And yes, Nederland blushes, because even after decades of being with Canada he still hasn’t gotten used to such simple, genuine compliments. He mutters something indistinct, hands still cradling Canada’s head.

“I mean it,” Canada continues. “I mean—God, Ned—”

Nederland has reached down to press one hand against Canada’s quickly-hardening length, well-pleased by the other’s response. He continues to caress him none-too-gently through his uniform until finally Canada pushes him away.

Breathing heavily, he wipes one hand through his hair and grins up at Nederland. “You’ve got to give me a chance to catch my breath,” he says. “Otherwise this’ll be over too soon.”

There’s no way to, no reason to, argue with that logic. So Nederland merely nods and sits himself down on the corner of Canada’s bed, watching. And Canada looks a bit sheepish, perhaps, as he pulls his jersey over his head and quickly shucks the rest of his clothes. Nederland has told him before and will tell him again that he’s perfect, that he daydreams about Canada’s toned chest and pale skin, but right now he just holds out both his hands and waits for Canada to step forward into the space between his legs.

He breathes out a sigh of great satisfaction as he finally is able to touch Canada unimpeded, hands running up and down the other man’s chest as Nederland attacks his throat with tongue and teeth and lips. Canada breathes shallowly, calling out exclamations and endearments in two languages and melting against Nederland’s touch. 

Some part of Canada must still be high on victory, however, because after a few moments he places his hands against Nederland’s shoulders and pushes him down to lie on the bed. His eyes flash as he whispers, “I’m going to peel you out of that uniform.” 

Nederland’s above blushing over matters like this (not so much the handholding, but that’s _different_ ), so he merely lies back and lays his arms to each side. He smiles up at Canada, expression begging him to get on with it. 

Canada climbs onto the bed after him, hands everywhere for a moment. He finally starts on Nederland’s neck, pulling aside the collar of his uniform to gain access to skin and the sensitive nape. He skirts two fingers along the back of Nederland’s neck and laughs softly as Nederland grits his teeth and hisses, already too sensitive. 

Canada finds the fixtures of the uniform and pulls them gently apart, making good on his earlier promise. He eases the bright fabric off of Nederland’s chest, pulling the sleeves off his arms and leaving him uncovered from the waist up. For a moment he leans in and lies against Nederland’s chest, head pressed close to his heart. 

“Mm. Love you,” he says, kissing one of Nederland’s nipples and then lapping at the skin. 

Nederland shuts his eyes against the pleasure, long fingers brushing against Canada’s cheeks. “Love you too, schatje,” he says, sincerely. 

He can feel Canada’s smile against his skin, and is vividly reminded of earlier—Canada in blissful, proud victory. Now Nederland’s hands drift to Canada’s shoulders and dig in. 

“But remember—you’re the winner, here.”

The thought seems to light Canada up from the inside, because immediately he bites down on Nederland’s skin. Though he soothes the spot with his tongue a moment later, there’s a distinct change is his demeanor. Nederland lets his head fall back and just enjoys it.

Canada is tugging at his uniform again, pulling it away from his now-straining erection and kissing his thighs. He finally gets the black-and-orange material off of Nederland’s long legs, tossing the entire garment away with a little whistle of victory. Nederland laughs a bit, but the sound is cut off as soon as Canada eases his legs further apart and kisses the head of his cock.

“Tjezus,” Nederland hisses, as Canada teases him with tongue and teeth. The best thing—one of the best things—about Canada is how earnestly he approaches everything. He doesn’t try to do all things at once, but whatever he attempts he does so as best he can. This is perhaps not the sort of thought that Nederland should be focused on when there’s a warm mouth around him and tremors of pleasure running through his body, but he’s overcome with a silly sort of affection that he’ll never put words to.

He’s getting close too fast, so Nederland reaches out to pause Canada’s movements. “Not yet,” he says, a little annoyed at the strangled quality of his voice, how quickly he’s come undone. 

Canada pulls back, licks his lips and smiles so innocently at the away Nederland groans in responds. He reaches out and grabs one of Nederland’s hands, holding on tightly. “What would you like?”

“You,” Nederland response immediately, because there’s no other option now. He shuts his eyes and lets himself go loose and limp, opening up to what he’s wanted since he stepped towards the ice rink in the first place.

Canada gives him a breathy laugh in response, and then his warm presence is gone from between Nederland’s legs. A moment later he’s back, and Nederland opens his eyes to gray-green slits to watch Canada snap open the tube and coat his pale fingers in lube. 

The other nation always runs a bit cold, and so Nederland doesn’t even try to hide his hiss as gentle fingers circle his hole and probe inside him gently. Canada strokes his other hand up and down Nederland’s chest, crooning soft endearments. At an earlier time in his life, Nederland never would have thought to enjoy hearing French. But maybe he was just waiting for Quebecois. 

Canada keeps up a firm, even pressure as he scissors his fingers. “Hold still,” he murmurs after a moment, and Nederland lets his arms fall to the sheets, hands clenched in the fabric. This part is just as good as the rest of it, because Canada is single-minded and wonderful. He rubs the pads of his fingers beyond the tight ring of muscle, smiles in soft satisfaction when he finds Nederland’s prostate and makes him rock with each fleeting moment of pressure against it.

“Ready?” Canada asks after a moment. 

Nederland clutches tight to Canada’s hand and says through gritted teeth, “If you don’t get on with it—”

Canada’s laughing again, soft and sweet.

“Please, schatje,” Nederland says quietly. 

Leaning in, Canada presses a kiss to Nederland’s brow and then another to his lips, fingers gently pushing Nederland’s chin up into it. Nederland sighs and lets that warm tongue trail over his teeth. It distracts him for a moment as Canada guides himself in, and Nederland doesn’t respond until Canada is fully sheathed inside of him. 

“Yes,” Nederland groans quietly. 

That seems to be all the affirmation that Canada needs. He holds onto Nederland’s hips as he begins to move, one stroke and then two more in quick succession. Nederland can feel every pulse of their bodies against each other, and he thinks dreamily that this should be how it always is—the two of them, drunk off of victory and accomplishment, unbothered by anything else in the world. It’s such a sappy thought that he swallows it down immediately, biting on the inside of his cheek. 

“I want to hear you,” Canada murmurs, voice close and intimate. “Come on, sweetie, it’s just us—”

Nederland shakes his head, reaches out to pull Canada closer and force him to move in earnest. But Canada pulls back, one hand a restraining force against Nederland’s sternum. 

“Come on,” he says. He kisses the corner of Nederland’s mouth.

Nederland had promised Canada anything that he wanted. In this moment, he’d give him the entire world if he asked. But Canada never presumes, never pushes farther than Nederland is comfortable going. So he tilts his head back and opens his lips, lets loose a string of rapid Dutch that speaks to Canada’s beauty, his tenderness, how much Nederland loves him and how unbelievably attractive Canada is on the ice. 

“I love you so much,” Nederland says, and Canada’s moving again, targeting Nederland’s prostate with each precise thrust. The pleasure is constant, sweet and surrounding. Nederland reaches for his cock, eager to relieve the pressure. But Canada pulls his hand away, replaces it with his own as he pulls Nederland to orgasm through simple, determined movements.

The world goes white for a moment—like the ice, like falling snow, like the most untouched parts of Canada’s skin that Nederland takes great joy in mapping. Nederland spills over Canada’s hand and groans his release as his body goes loose and languid. Canada surges forward and claims his mouth, keeps up the even pressure of his thrusts until he finally pushes himself to his own climax, coming warmly against Nederland’s ass and thighs as he pulls out. 

They’re redder than they were on the ice, panting more heavily. Nederland wraps his arms around Canada as the other nation lies against him, head tucked against Nederland’s shoulder.

“Hockey is definitely the sexiest sport,” Nederland tells Canada, sincerely. 

Canada just laughs and peppers Nederland’s face with kisses. “Well,” he says, “I’ve always thought so.”

\--

It’s the next morning, and Nederland steps lightly into the room, having returned from the lobby with fresh coffee. He supposes it might be the smell that wakes Canada, who blinks open tired eyes and shifts a little beneath the sheets.

“It better not be five am,” he says wearily, one hand groping blindly at the bedside table for his glasses.

“No. Six.” Nederland moves towards the bed, sets the coffee down and hands Canada his glasses. Canada pushes them up his nose and looks at Nederland, his entire face going pink.

“Take off your jeans and get back into bed,” Canada says. It’s not quite an order, but Nederland could take it as such if he so chose. 

“Why’s that?” he asks, feigning innocence.

Canada grabs him with one hand fisted in his shirt, tugging him close. “Because I’ve never seen anything sexier than you wearing _my_ jersey.” 

Now Nederland smirks. The white-and-red jersey is too broad in the shoulders and not quite long enough, but Canada doesn’t seem to mind as he claims Nederland’s lips in a biting kiss. In that moment, there’s no doubt of the want that runs between them, nor the love.


End file.
